


Nightwalker

by Noctambularis



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Flashbacks, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Stabbing, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 23:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16315097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noctambularis/pseuds/Noctambularis
Summary: Stefano Valentini left his home to pursue his passion and creations, and while he attempts to rebuild his life after the war, his aspirations give way to madness.





	Nightwalker

**Author's Note:**

> An interpretation of Stefano's earlier days when he has just finished recovering from his injury and is now starting out his “art” (serial killing) in Krimson City. Expect lots of flashbacks intertwined with the present.  
> I don't know if I'll write anything far enough to catch up with the canon or if I'll just end the story before the events of TEW2, but I'm mostly writing as I go anyway, so we'll see what happens.

There is no light filtering through the curtains when he wakes.

 

His body is too tired, too stubborn to physically stir him from his slumber. His eye refuses to open at first.  He thinks about giving himself another few minutes to rest, but his mind is swimming in enough dark thoughts that he decides it's best to wake and not risk falling into a nightmare—or worse, oversleep on such an important night. Even in this darkness, he needs a moment to let his vision adjust to his apartment. Everything is blurry for several seconds. It didn't always take this long for his sight to focus, but this is his reality now, and there's nothing he can do to change it.

 

Stefano curls upward slowly, sitting upright in his bed. He touches the right side of his face very lightly with his fingertips, applying a gentle pressure to the area just above his cheekbone. Thankfully, there is no pain today. Some days, it aches with a dull pulse. Other times, the pain rips him out of his sleep, when the sharp throbbing in his skull feels too familiar, too similar to that pivotal moment when everything in that eye went red, then black forever. But seeing as his memories are quiet at the moment and his shirt isn't clinging to his back with cold sweat, it seems his mind has let him off easy for once.

 

He lets out a low, baritone groan, his voice scratchy and hoarse from four hours of restless sleep. The wall clock indicates that it is about eleven o'clock, and judging from the complete absence of any sunlight peeking beneath the curtains and the lifeless silence outside his apartment window, he can confirm that it is now nearing the dead of night. For the past few days, his new 'work' schedule has been playing havoc with his sleeping habits and leaving him exhausted in the daytime. He knows this is no way for a normal man to live. But he isn't the type to settle for normalcy anyway.

 

Eventually, he is able to get his wake-up routine out of the way—brushing his teeth, getting a clean shave, taking a cold shower. He would have preferred a _hot_ shower, but he's still waiting for that useless landlady to get someone to fix the damned pipes. He's asked her twice in a civil manner already, and he's afraid that if he has to ask one more time, he might just strangle her before another excuse can even squeeze itself out of her throat.

 

While he stews over the imagery of watching the life fade from the landlady's beady little eyes, Stefano reaches in the fridge for a few cold cuts he'd picked up from the local deli and collects a few other ingredients to prepare something decent to eat—more of a midnight meal than a breakfast, but it is, in fact, nearly midnight after all.

 

He has thinned considerably since his days as a war photographer and has been trying to rebuild his appetite and fitness at home. The training and daily strain of traveling and running with his camera equipment in tow kept him in good shape in the desert, so he was less than pleased to discover how sallow he looked and how much his muscles had atrophied after the absolutely nightmarish time he'd spent restrained at the hospital. It wasn't just the wretched treatments and chemical stench in the air that made his stomach turn, but the physical sensation of lying down in complete darkness for days on end, unable to move, that had nearly broken him several times.

 

 

 

He distinctly remembers one particular day when the ward was completely packed. Another IED had injured several men not too far off from the site where he'd lost his eye. He remembers the sounds of uncontrolled wailing and crying around him, though he had been unable to see anything at the time. It set off a wave of panic inside him unlike any other—hearing the men's screams and cries were driving him into complete insanity. He could hear them calling out for their loved ones—names of wives and lovers were being repeated all around him, and he could even hear many begging for their mothers. All these sounds erupted into a cacophony of sobbed pleas for comfort.

 

When the noise finally reached an unbearable crescendo, Stefano opened his mouth to join them and scream for help in a moment of desperation and anxiety, but he found that he simply couldn't. No name came from his lips. He tried to think of someone, _anyone_ that he could hold onto so that he wouldn't lose himself in the pain of this moment, but no face came to mind. He realized that there was not a soul who would even know or care if he made it through this, no one to take care of him or help him get back up on his feet in the months of recovery to come.

 

Somewhere inside, he ached to call for his mother. But it felt so suddenly ridiculous considering what an uncaring bitch she had been, that he suddenly laughed. He chuckled to himself softly and maliciously, and then closed his mouth in a resigned, almost contented manner.

 

Something snapped inside of him in that moment, though he hadn't realized it yet. He thought over how foolish this all was—how these grown men were still just frightened boys fighting with weapons too dangerous for their own good, how futile it was to think that the world would understand what he'd seen. No, it wasn't journalistic truth that he was seeking in his photographs. It was something deeper—an emotion, a raw moment, much like the unguarded anguish in the voices around him now. If only he could see their faces. If only he could capture this room and all these men in agony.

 

And that was when he suddenly remembered the last thing he saw in his right eye through the viewfinder of his camera. He could see it so clearly now in his mind's eye, and could only pray that he had successfully captured such an intense moment—the likes of which he doubted he could ever capture again. He remembered pressing his finger down on the camera and hearing the shutter's soft click a fraction of a second before the impact, but he couldn't be certain that the picture survived. He felt a burning need to know that he wasn't going to leave this ordeal empty-handed. A picture so unique and perfect and marvelous had to make it out of this place with him. He could transform it—it could be more than just a photograph. It would be his creation, his _art_.

 

Still restrained against his hospital bed and enveloped in darkness, Stefano suddenly screamed for his camera, for his photograph, for his masterpiece—the only things that would ever provide him the comfort and purpose he so desperately needed.

 

 

 

The clink of his own fork hitting the empty dish startles Stefano back into reality, back into the dimly lit kitchen in his apartment. His mind often has a funny way of wandering these days, and it's not usually with pleasant thoughts. But he is pleased to remember his masterpiece, his most meaningful photograph. People gawked at and admired the gruesome imagery with morbid curiosity—news media outlets were eager to display something so raw, jarring, and evocative to highlight the insanity & dangers of the war in their coverage to attract viewers.

 

There were, predictably, a few meek souls who cried outrage upon seeing such a 'violent and inappropriate' photo. Stefano can't quite understand how anyone could miss the point so blatantly, but he supposes that there will always be fools—uneducated Neanderthals who can never appreciate art for what it is. As far as he's concerned, they are a waste of space and do not deserve to admire his work in the first place.

 

Speaking of his work, Stefano remembers himself, realizing that he ought to start. Once he has finished cleaning up after his meal, he reaches for his gloves on the nearby counter almost immediately—he can't bear to work without them. The hideous scars on his right hand serve as a grotesque reminder of his disfigurement, for one thing, which distracts him from his work. Secondly, he can't leave any traceable marks of his presence anywhere. He knows that in the pursuit of his art, he still needs to be careful. There will be those that will try to stop what they cannot comprehend. They will hunt him down and put an end to his work. Naturally, he cannot let this happen.

 

It doesn't take long to get fully dressed and prepared. He throws on a tasteful jacket thick enough for the evening Autumn air, wraps a scarf around his neck, and does a last check of his camera before heading out the front door.

 

 

 

Stefano quietly makes his way out of his apartment and watches his surroundings carefully before stalking the streets in silence, clutching his camera closely and discreetly. There are still some nights where he's narrowly escaped some unfavourable characters. No doubt being so nicely dressed in this part of town in the small hours of the night might attract the attention of a few unsavoury people, but he's been able to get himself out of almost any tight situation so far.

 

While his physical recovery is slow and he is still nowhere near the same condition as he was in the war, he has eaten enough to start the night off with some energy and has enough stamina to do what needs to be done to create his art. The missing piece is still his recovering upper body strength, but with enough daily regimens at home, he expects he'll catch up eventually. Most of his preferred female subjects are all thin, frail things anyway—fighting their resistance and disposing of the excess flesh & materials after he's finished a piece shouldn't be too taxing. Of course there's the question of possible future male subjects that may prove more difficult to subdue, but he's getting ahead of himself.

 

Stefano walks a few blocks from his apartment building until he's reached an area he is extremely familiar with.  He has spent enough time making the rounds near Krimson City Park since moving here to know where it will be safe to conduct his work.

 

His heart pounds in his chest.

 

The lightheaded grogginess and distracting memories that clouded his mind back at the apartment are now being replaced with real, violent adrenaline.

 

The reality of what he is about to do dawns on him, and he shivers.  It is not his conscience that is triggering his hesitation—far from it, after all he'd lost his sense of guilt so long ago that he isn't even sure he ever had it in the first place.  No, what is giving him doubts is that he might become overeager.

 

While he's seen the horrors of war and death up close, his personal inexperience in taking a life with his own hands might destroy the whole artistic process if he isn't careful.  Perhaps he blunders the ambush and his human canvas manages to flee? Perhaps he is caught? Perhaps, in his eagerness, he blemishes his canvas with too much force and kills her too early?

 

Just as his thoughts spiral into nervous apprehension, a subject appears in the form of a lone woman descending at the bus stop. He didn't think he would find a suitable canvas so easily, but he can already imagine how her figure is perfect for him to carve the most beautiful designs. Stefano watches her approach as she is slowly coming towards his hiding spot in the dark alley. She isn't accompanied by anyone else and he has confirmed that there is no one around at this moment.

 

As long as he stays calm, as long as he gets the job done quickly and quietly, he will have his prized photo. It may become a bit messy, and a dingy alley is hardly the kind of sophisticated backdrop that his work deserves, but he knows he will find a way to reach his standards one step at a time with each piece of art he makes.

 

The lone woman approaches closer, and the street remains dead silent apart from the very light clicks of her high heels on the pavement.  She looks about no more than 24 years of age or so, incredibly slender with short blonde hair, and she is sporting a very trim but professional black dress with a beige coat draped over her shoulders. She's unguarded and completely unaware, listening to her music absently through her earbuds as if nothing could happen to her this late at night in a place like this.

 

Stefano doesn't know her name, doesn't know her occupation, doesn't care. It is only her flesh, her blood, and her eventual terror that holds any importance to him. She is a beauty, that much he can tell right away—definitely perfect for his first trial piece in such an experimental collection. If anything, she should be honoured that he has chosen her as his first amateur canvas, and that her dying light will be forever preserved by an artist with his taste and genius. In killing her, he is breaking new ground, and it is both exciting and terrifying at the same time.

 

His heart accelerates again as she enters the alley, and he licks his lips nervously. He is desperate to control his breathing as quietly as possible, and steels himself from becoming too agitated or excited. He knows he has to time this just right, but so far he has only taken pictures at a distance—things like gang beatings, muggings, assault—just to test the waters, to test the danger, and of course to test his new camera lenses.

 

He's been preparing for more than a month for tonight—the night where he becomes the first man to dare create art that no one has tried before. No hiding, no distance. He will design the work with his own hands, arrange the subject to his liking, and capture that moment he has been so desperate to see since he created his greatest masterpiece out in that desert.

 

The young woman makes her usual shortcut through the seemingly deserted alley to get to her apartment, never guessing what was about to happen to her. It's a just short turn through here to reach her building. She isn't far from the safety of her home.

 

Stefano holds his camera tightly in one hand. He pulls out a long, intricate knife from his inner jacket pocket with the other.

He waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of a test to get some writing down, but then I decided it might be fun to turn it into a full fic. I've been working on an AU that is threatening to destroy my sanity so this kind of relieves the pressure a bit and will hopefully get me to loosen up.  
> Next chapter will go up in a week or so (with any luck)—we should get to see Stefano refining his "art process" through more trial and error, and Emily will be appearing soon so that there is some dialogue and character interaction beyond just... y'know... murder.  
> Thank you very much for reading! :)


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